i know you love me like the past, the now, the coming years
by onlywordsnow
Summary: thinking of you, thinking of me


**i know you love me like the past, the now, the coming years; nc-17; 8,130 words;**

**thinking of you, thinking of me**

* * *

She's always had a thing for the idea of the holidays. Somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas she gets caught up in the glow of Christmas lights, the idea of secret Santa, the prospects of the office Christmas party - it's usually a show of decorations and cheer and...alcohol, always the silent comfort of alcohol regardless of who she has at her side. There are few traditions that she remembers from childhood, more of which she's accumulated over the years.

When the holidays begins to rear its potentially ugly head, she always finds her Christmas cheer in teasing Harvey about his Christmas balls and forcing him to listen to old timey Christmas tunes in addition to spiking his eggnog. She doesn't enjoy the holiday nearly as much as she enjoys annoying him, a tradition she's held steady for years. She typically lightens up right around the office party, noting the sullen look on his face at the idea of the broken traditions that were long lost in the realms of his childhood.

He'd smile, laugh a little more forced, scowl a little deeper, spend a little more time at the office than usual. He'd hardly tease her or he'd tease her a little more depending on his mood, but she'd never miss a beat. She gets him, even the parts of him that he pretends doesn't exist, knows when he isn't willing to put up with any bullshit and knows whose bullshit he's willing to deal with.

But lately, they're different. He smiles a little easier, doesn't seem to get so tense and unwilling to play a little more than work. She notes the color of suits he wears (more often gray because she always comments on his suits when he wears the color, because he _looks dazzling in gray especially with his Specter smile_.

His suit is gray. She's always partial to his gray suits because he wears them in a way that makes him stand out. He looks bold and handsome and dressed like he could kill, like he's the new version of 007. His tie could be any color, any color on the color wheel, and her eyes would still find his shoulders first. The gray suit hugs him differently than the black suit, leaves a mark that is rarely found in a man.

She's been trying to keep her eyes off of him all night, but she can't - it's become increasingly more difficult.

Her eyes catch his and for a few moments she wonders if he's conveying to her what she thinks he's conveying to her; she curls her mouth upward, slightly suggestive and slightly challenging, and lightly shakes her head. He smirks at her before downing the last of the scotch in his glass; she feels her chest tightens, and she wills herself to take her eyes off of him. She's been watching him more and more, mimicing the way he's been watching her for days or weeks or months or years.

He rolls his eyes at her, the festivities for the annual company Christmas party getting to him as quickly as it always does. She can't pinpoint where everyone else is or measure their amount of liquor because she can't seem to look anywhere but at her boss, despite her best efforts. There was a moment when their gazes lingered for too long, carrying out that silent conversation that they can have in a crowded room. She only hopes that they understood each other perfectly.

There was once a time that she'd come with a date - a dashing fellow with a rich name and the money to put behind it, smart and maybe even on the political track and aching to move up in the family business. She'd lead him on, get a little handsy, kiss him under the mistletoe, laugh at his stupid jokes, and introduce him to the room like she's trying to land the firm a client. She'd schmooze and he'd go for it - she certainly wouldn't be going home alone.

He certainly wouldn't be there alone either. He'd have a tall woman on his arm, with heels to make her taller, and she'd have blonde hair or black hair or brown hair but never red hair - _never_. They don't discuss his conquests but she imagines that he can take them home if he wanted to because there's this thing about him that women just can't say no to even when they say no. But tonight, tonight neither of them have a date or an accessory and she can only imagine why.

She paints a picture in her mind that it's because she returned to the office and everything since then has made sense and made no sense at the same time. Each movement and reaction, each word and rebuttal means something more than it did before - means something different than it once might have. She knows why she didn't come with a date, but the fact that he didn't either gives her something to think about.

Since her return to the firm, everything is contrite and she is overtly aware of the way he's made his apologies. She doesn't give him the leeway that he silently wants, doesn't offer him any kind of inclination of whether he has been forgiven or not. She knows that one day, he'll know. He'll know when she looks at him and their gaze lingers in the same way it has been in their repetitive motion of silence

- _"do you forgive me?"_ / _"yes"_.

He should know by now that he's been beyond forgiven but she knows a few things about Harvey Specter that no one else could even begin to fathom.

(one): he will never stop asking for forgiveness until he feels like he deserves to be forgiven

(two): he will never ask for forgiveness out loud

(three): if it were anyone but her, he wouldn't give a shit or bother asking for forgiveness to this degree

For the last six months, they've played a silent game of push and pull - no words have passed between them regarding all of the Daniel Hardman bullshit, nothing beyond the lighthearted _I already went and came back_. He's just been a little bit sweeter, let her win their banters a little bit easier, smiles at her a little bit more often. She still sees the worry in his features; even though it's over, she can tell that he doesn't really believe it's over.

She smiles at him and she lets her hair fall over her face, a curtain to shield the slight blush creeping into her cheeks. She can still feel his eyes on her and when she checks her watch she can't clock the exact amount of time he's been staring. This is how it's been - he watches intently and she bites her tongue, never says the things that really needs to be said.

Everyone is drunk, three sheets to the wind, falling over themselves; it takes both hands for her to count the number of drinks she's had, but she isn't quite feeling it - her tongue isn't numb and she can still feel her fingertips, but her skin is hot. She isn't even sure that she can attribute that to the alcohol, thinks that it's just the idea inside of her head. She feels it, the soft pads of his fingers painting pictures and drawing maps to leave a trail of everywhere he's been.

Her body is a map, crisp and unused - begging for him to leave a mark.

He won't, she knows better. She knows that there's too much history engraved, that they are at a stalemate and neither of them will make a move. They've made it obvious in different ways that they don't have much interest in anyone else, but maybe it's just because they've been too busy being in recovery mode – after all, the memories are fresh.

She still remembers his face when she stepped onto that elevator, the way he was speechless and couldn't come up with any parting words for her. He couldn't even utter goodbye, could barely exhale, but his eyes were red-rimmed. The way he swallowed, how he tried to bury every emotion without actually making much movement.

Sometimes she imagines what it would be like to disappear into space and time, travel the world and see the sights, but then she remembers how badly Harvey needs her to function. She corrects herself, thinks that all of the time alone might be getting to her if she's letting her mind travel back into her Star Trek fantasies. There's another life out there waiting for her, she thinks.

The soft hum of _All I Want for Christmas_ starts and she outwardly cringes because it's the version above all versions that she hates. That's the first time her eyes do a full sweep of the room. Jessica's commanding the room with her silent power. Rachel's caught in some debate with Louis and Donna figures the only discussion that merits that much passion between them would be theater or ballet, something of that nature. Mike's drinking, standing so close but oh so far away from Rachel - they still haven't fixed things, and Donna is stuck between loyalty to her friend and feeling for the kid.

"No date?" Harvey asks, voice hard yet gentle at the same time as his tongue trips over itself.

She smiles in spite of herself, tilts her head to the side but doesn't bother to glance at him over her shoulder. He's standing so close that she can feel the heat radiate off of his body, a warmth in the crisp air that she doesn't know how to react. She etches forward, leaning more against the counter of the bar, in an attempt to put some space between them, still feeling like his hollowed voice is meant for only her.

She forces her mouth into a thin line, gently shaking her head, "same for you, I see."

"No," he agrees, voice unwavering.

There's no indication as to what emotion he's trying to convey. He reaches around her to set his empty glass on the bar, motioning to the bartender for two more. It's a silent movement, one that she feels his chest tap against her shoulder blades and she has to pretend that it doesn't get to her. She hates the pretending - pretending that her heart doesn't beat a little bit faster when he's near, pretending that her breath doesn't hitch in her throat when he touches her, pretending that she doesn't think about what it might be like to feel his lips pressed against hers again.

She hears him sigh, feels his breath wind through her hair as he shifts most of his weight to his right foot and she can see him out of her peripheral vision; "you usually have a popular millionaire as your date to these things."

She has so many things she wants to counter him with: _you usually have a bimbo on your arm_, _and I thought you didn't notice_, _are you implying I'm a gold digger?_ - all conveying much different emotions.

Instead she says none of those things, just sighs as the bartender pushes two glasses in front of them. She offers Harvey a smile that he can't see, one she always unconsciously uses when she thinks of him in any light other than as her boss. His fingertips brush over her skin as he reaches for the glass on the counter but he doesn't take it to his lips.

Fondly, she replies, "yeah, things have changed."

"For me too," he admits. Everything between them is seemingly on the surface, but it never really is - it's always much deeper, the meanings that no one else catches or the gazes that speak volumes. It is never simple yet it is - it is simple because within the complexity, they are simple and they simply understand each other. "You're aware of all the mistletoe hanging up, right?"

"Please, Harvey," she refutes with a playful roll of the eyes, "I don't buy into all of those silly Christmas traditions."

"I normally wouldn't either," he agrees; he takes a drink of his scotch, swallows and she can almost hear the burn, "but I'd make an exception for you."

She lightly shakes her head, feeling his fingers wrap around the exposed skin of her forearm and her heart lurches into her throat; warningly, she says his name. His thumb smooths over her skin and a chill skates over her skin, the hairs on her arms standing on their ends beneath his touch. She doesn't know where this is going - she's scared to find out.

"You don't need an excuse, Harvey," she says teasingly; he doesn't completely know how to take it - whether it's an invitation or a harmless flirtation.

"Donna," he replies evenly, swallows and leans in a bit, "can we go somewhere? To talk?"

She knows that if she looks him in the eye that she'll lose her resolve so she has no intentions of doing so. His fingers slide down her arm to her wrist and she's lost in the moment of how gentle his touch is, forgets that she's supposed to keep her back to him and tell him no. She swallows, lips parting ever so slightly, and turns to look at him; she can feel the warmth of his breath trail over her lips.

"Yeah," she finally says, breathless, "okay."

She knows that this has been a long time coming, that whatever is said right here will bring to light everything that's gone unsaid. She follows his lead, wills herself to stay collected with the feel of his fingertips on the small of her back. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, suddenly dry as he leads her far away from that god-awful song that grates on her nerves.

His hand reaches around and pushes open the door to the balcony, a gush of December air surrounding her. Even though it's freezing outside and they're the only idiots that could even think of going out there, she understands why he's doing it. It's the only place they can go and know they won't be disturbed because who else would bother?

His fingers are warm against her flesh, a slight tingling sensation echoing to her own fingertips. It's a game of fleeting touches and lingering gazes that they've been playing for far too long, a game with other revolving players who haven't gotten to play in a while. She's noticed. She's sure that he's probably noticed too.

"What is it, Harvey?" She asks, quietly, just loud enough for him to hear her.

She watches him swallow, his Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat, "I just wanted to get you alone."

She smiles because she can't help it. She silently appreciates the way he stands close to emit his warmth, although she isn't sure that it's enough. They're just 2 idiots trying to figure out where to start.

Neither of them can figure it out.

"All you have to do is ask," she muses.

She pictures the way his mouth would turn upward, a smug grin in a way that isn't so obvious to everyone. She can't look at him, refuses to because their flirting is usually harmless but now the lines are blurring. The lines have been blurring for a long time and she can't redefine them in her head.

She isn't even sure that they can be redefined anymore. After 14 years of working together, all of that time where she has learned his every movement and has mastered the art of deciphering his body language, his facial expressions, what his noises indicate - nothing between them is even the slightest bit simple. Since the memo, the document that nearly broke them and undid all of the trust they've built, they've both become increasingly dedicated to each other in a way that never would have occurred to them before.

"Why no date tonight?" He tries again.

She tilts her head to the side, feels his fingertips tuck her hair behind her ear; her voice drops to a whisper, "I'll tell you if you tell me."

"Okay," he replies smugly, "I think you don't have a date because you're losing your touch."

"What does that mean?" She scoffs.

He smiles, drops his gaze to the balcony railing and let's his eyes trail over her poor, frozen skin - "it means that I don't think you could find any suitable dates."

"You caught me," she says, "all of the good ones were taken."

"I didn't have a date," he reasons.

"Like I said, all of the good ones were taken," she smirks. He laughs at her joke, the slightest hint of mock seeping its way in. She notices the rejection he feels when his touch lightens on her arm, his fingers loosening their already gentle hold. "Besides, you already had an invite to the event of the season."

"You're still the prettiest girl at the ball," he counters. The verbal exchange could be natural, flirtatiious, meaningful - any number of things that they refuse to bring to surface. Over a decade of burying what really exists between them and she wonders if it's too late to bring them to light now. "Whatever, glad you didn't have a date. I never would have been able to get you alone."

"I don't know, you always get your way," she reminds him.

He smirks, "true."

A moment passes and she realizes how awkward the silences between them could be if they aren't working, busying themselves with other things; she has to fill the silence before things are said that have never been - "did you get the memo-"

"Work-free zone," he says, lifting a hand to stop her.

She concedes but knows that it means everything she's managed to not quite say is going to be said. Her eyes drift to the stars and she tries to pinpoint every star of the constellations that she learned when she took that astronomy class back in college. It was a huge waste of her time but her boyfriend at the time convinced her that they could be study buddies.

She was such a sucker back then.

She releases a ragged breath, "when I got fired, did you miss me?"

She's still a sucker, not much has changed.

Her voice is shaky, even she can hear it, but she can't stop it. The words have taken on a life of their own, taken over her body and she's only the source of emotions. She's always been good at controlling her emotions, a lover of the arts and a fiend for theatre. Everything is unraveling and she is losing all control.

"Of course I did," he says, fingers gliding over her arm, "my temp didn't know a goddamn thing."

"That's not," she starts, shakes her head once cutting herself off because she thinks it's better off unsaid.

He taps his fingers against her skin, playing out a rhythm that his father taught him to play when he was a kid, "I know what you meant. We've been together a long time, you and me. I lose my goddamn mind without you."

"I've heard war stories," she replies; she shivers, purses her lips together before she turns pleading eyes towards him, "it's freezing out here."

"It's December," he counters with a smirk.

She laughs, absently leans her upper body towards him for a bit more warmth, "yeah, well, if I freeze to death you're going to need a permanent replacement."

"You won't. Okay, I admit, outside wasn't the best idea, but I figured it would be less likely for us to get interruptions. I just needed-" he starts, sighs as he scratches just above his brow. He wets his lips like he's nervous and for a moment she wonders what he could possibly have to say to her that would leave him so unsettled. There's a lot of things she knows about Harvey Reginald Specter and she knows that the only things that ever make him unsettled all have her name tied to it. She's taken off guard when she feels his fingertips slide through her hair again, his fingers lingering on her skin, softer than before - "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry that I didn't fight for you."

"We don't need to do this, Harvey," she says, "we're both sorry. We're both forgiven."

"Okay, good," he agrees. He swallows, lifts his eyes to hers and purses his lips. She can see on his face that he doesn't entirely agree that it's done, over, like he wants her to understand where he was coming from. "But maybe it needs to be said."

It's simple, his voice, the way it edges with a bit of humiliation and how the pad of his thumb lingers over her jawline - hovers really;

"I did what I did for _you_. I thought that if I destroyed it then you would be okay, that if no one else knew it even existed then it would just be me who could possibly suffer. I'd never seen it before, I knew that much, and I knew that if I hadn't seen it then neither had you. I just...wanted to protect you. I wouldn't have done that if it was about me."

"So where we went wrong is that I didn't have your back?" He ventures, "or you thought that I didn't have your back. It didn't seem like I did at the time, but I did. I knew that the sooner I could make it disappear completely, the sooner I could get you back."

"Well," she replies breathily, "you got me back."

"Donna, I," he sighs and she can feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek; she thinks he's leaning closer, maybe even hopes that he is, "-I want more of you."

"This is because what happened at dinner the other night, right?" Her voice is hard in her throat.

"I would hardly call that an orchestrated dinner," he replies, a grin on his features, "it was take out over work."

"And you kissed me," she pointed out.

His eyebrows immediately furrow, "I thought you kissed me."

"You told me that you made a mistake, that you shouldn't have done it," she reminds him.

"I shouldn't have," he agrees, "but I don't regret it. I just keep thinking..."

"Me too," she replies.

"I want to-"

"Again."

"Yeah," he agrees, "but I think that if it happens again, I won't be able to stop myself."

"Then not here," she counters.

She surprises herself, wraps a hand around his wrist (fingers finding skin while scratching at the material of his sleeve) and tugs in a borderline not-so-discreet manner. He follows her lead, something that he doesn't do all that well but finds himself more than willing to do for her. It's been growing, his feelings, his inability to deny her anything, his need to be with her.

He sighs absently, her hand loosening on his wrist; he laughs into the bellows of his throat, "are you drunk?"

"I lost count about an hour ago," she starts, casting a smirk over her shoulder, "but I'm not quite drunk."

Her heels click on the tile and the noise entwines with the bustle of the room, the sound of his shoes dusting over the floor making her release her hold on him. Her hand gets a beat away from him before he lunges forward, catches her fingertips as they step over the threshold into the hallway. Barely out of sight, maybe not even entirely out of mind, his fingers curl around her palm as his own palm presses into her wrist. The throb of her pulse collides with his skin, just above the area where bones meet in his wrist - his breath constricts in his throat as he tugs on her arm, forces her to face him. Their eyes don't even have a moment to connect before his hips push against hers, the pads of his fingers trapping her hand against the wall.

His tongue darts out, absently slides over his lips, "I have so much that I want to say."

"You don't love me, Harvey," she tells him.

She can feel his eyes tracing her features, like he's trying to memorize everything she could have to offer. His foot slides over the floor, toe of his shoe coming to a stop when it hits the tall heel of her _Jimmy Choos_; the movement causes her to lose her balance, her hand slamming into his shoulder as he impulsively reaches to steady her at the hips. He's always baffled at the way that her dresses or skirts always stop within an inch of her knee, give or take. He releases a breath, his mouth a few inches from hers, his fingers twisting against her.

"Do we have to make this about love?"

She sighs, her fingers grasping his shoulder, "just reminding you."

"He came after you because I care about you," he mutters, "there will always be people trying to bring me down through you. I care about you and the hardest thing I've ever had to do is let you walk away. I didn't know what else to do, didn't know how to fix it, but I need you, Donna, and you're the only person that I can say that to without a specific reason."

Her shoulders lean heavily against the wall as she archers her torso into his, her thigh sliding between his legs, "none of that is going to make me go anywhere."

"Not even," he starts, releases a breath, "if they come after me again?"

"No one can take me from you. Trust me, they've tried."

"And here you are," he muses with a smirk.

"Here I am," she agrees. He leans forward, the lapels of his suit stretching with the movement, the muscles in his forearm tightening as he pulls her hand upward. She digs her nails into the back of his hand, crescent moons etching into his flesh; she can barely concentrate, the way that his breath trails over her slightly parted lips. She wonders if this is how it's been over the last 14 years with just a little more space, a little easier to ignore - she isn't sure that she can contain herself for much longer. "I haven't heard you complain yet."

"No," he absently says, "no, I wouldn't. I know better."

"Are you sure about this?"

He grins half-heartedly, "no, but I can't keep pretending that I don't think about it."

It's fast and slow at the same time, the way his mouth lowers to hers, their breath colliding in the space between them. She pushes her fingers along the expanse of his shoulder, the pads of her cold appendages pressing into the warmth of his neck just above his collar. Her rings are cold in the space between his hairline and his collar, a shiver running up his spine and making the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end.

Her lips part wider, more, invitingly, and her tongue slides out to meet his. The warmth of his tongue, thickness of his saliva like it's been collecting for minutes or hours as he just gazed at her, slides and mingles with hers. Wet, moist, damp, warm - the way it's all lips and tongue and teeth at the same time like there's a desperate need that's settled somewhere between them.

His fingertips slide up her arm, pressing harder into her wrist than he'd intended, scratches from her nails left on the back of his hand with the movement. It's only when he presses his hand into her elbow that she gets what he wants and moves her hand to join the other at the back of his neck. Neither of them really know how to play the game to take it slow, knows when to stop when they've actually crossed a line that was drawn too thick.

His fingers press up her legs, forcing the hem of her dress up a little more, and he pushes his thumbs into her hips - lifts her with an ease that she wasn't necessarily expecting. He settles between her thighs as her legs tighten around his waist, his body slamming into hers in a way that knocks the wind out of her. She tugs on his tie, loosening it as her hand slips just beneath his collar; she sighs into his mouth, the way his thumbs circle her hipbones distracting her and she nearly forgets to breathe.

For a brief moment, it occurs to her that they may be a little old for this - disappearing into shadows at office Christmas parties because they are desperate and incapable of waiting until the tracks on the cd's (which Harvey fought tooth and nail about because _vinyl is the most authentic way to appreciate music just short of a good jazz band_) run out so they can slip out unnoticed by all of their drunken colleagues to kiss in the cold, touch each other borderline inappropriately in the car, fuck each other in the living room because they can't fumble to the bedroom. Instead, it's like she's 20 years old again in the library at Yale, hands slipping expertly in places that women aren't even supposed to know about at her age yet with a man who isn't supposed to be on her radar. The importance of the distance they'd placed between them has long been forgotten, a cold compression that has taken years to build and only months to tear down.

Part of her knows that they should be strong about this, lay down rules to maintain their professional relationship as well as their personal one, but she can't - they can't.

The way his tongue probes her cheek, slides over the ridges over her teeth like he's counting where each one ends and begins. A slight burn echoes on her skin, the stubble of his facial hair after a long day of work colliding with the (un)pleasantries of the professional bond taking over his evening. Jessica knows that he's never been keen on fraternizing with the associate's, wouldn't be surprised if he went missing and she couldn't find him. They are each notorious for excusing themselves in a way that their sudden absence wouldn't be questioned.

Laughter echoes down the corridor, collides with her ears in a way that makes her body stiffen between his and the way, that makes her fingers tighten around the collar of his shirt. His hand slips beneath the hem of her dress, slides up her thigh and taps out a 1-2-3-4 sound against her skin. She smirks against his mouth when his movements still at the realization that she isn't wearing underwear because she does that sometimes. She likes to live on the edge, challenge fate and destiny if the opportunity ever arises.

His lips leave hers to catch a breath, the warmth with each exhale trailing over her lips with an ease that radiates from him to her; she can feel the ghost of his lips slide into a smirk, "did you know this was going happen?"

"A girl can dream," she counters. She sharply inhales when he hovers his fingers over her opening, the smooth pads of them brushing over her clit as her hand slides down the length of his tie. She feels his eyelashes flutter over her cheek, lips parting at her chin as his nose and forehead rests against hers. "I didn't know this was going to happen."

"You wanted it to," he challenges.

Her hand stills at the top button of his suit jacket; she unbuttons it with one hand, the nails from her other hand digging harder into his skin as she shifts to make it all more accessible - "I wanted you to tell me why you kissed me."

"You kissed me," he repeats.

"I didn't," she says sharply, a slightly annoyed sigh escaping her lips, "I remember it."

"Been replaying it in your head?"

She glares and pulls his tucked shirt from his pants, "I'm just that good."

"It's funny how everyone suddenly has a photographic memory," he chimes in.

"Oh, please, a woman always has complete recollection of events she can hold against a man," she corrects; she unbuttons his pants, tugs on the waistband of his boxers to pull him closer to her.

He smirks, "it all makes sense now. Is this okay?"

She doesn't give him verbal assurance, just purses her lips and pushes his boxers over his hipbones in response.

"You kissed me first. I had a glass of scotch in my right hand and was leaning against your desk with my left, talking about how you need to loosen up and just take a bite of my damn," her breath hitches in her throat because she'd been so busy talking that she didn't notice his fingers sliding down her thigh to replace them with his erection. She nearly chokes on her words as he smirks and pushes further into her, his lips sliding over hers for just a brief moment. She releases a shaky breath in an attempt to regain her composure, "and that's when you stood up and kissed me."

"I feel like you missed a step or two," he mutters.

"Shut up," she tells him; his mouth quirks into a smirk and she rolls her eyes on autopilot, "does it really matter who kissed who?"

He pushes his hips forward, fingers catching in the material of her dress, "I guess it doesn't."

Her breath hitches in her throat, ticking away at the possibilities of what would happen if someone , anyone, were to walk down that corridor - distant laughter replaced with the echoes of footsteps bouncing off of the walls. She imagines it in distinct details, specific people, gauging their reactions like it's her sixth sense. And, in a way, it is - it's something she's good at, something that comes easy for her. But now she's floundering, picturing the not so distant hypothetical future -

1, Rachel: she would bite back a scream, be scarred for life, maybe even cry while proclaiming that her eyes are burning, that she can't even look at them anymore, and it wouldn't be the end of the world or the end of their friendship (neither the one she has with Rachel or the one she has with Harvey); it would just simply be traumatic and scarce but it would never leave the moment beyond a little bit of girl on girl prying.

2, Mike: he'd look at them like he'd known all along, accuse that they should have told him, insert himself into the depths of their business, ask questions at all of the worst times, make inappropriate comments to her (but never to Harvey because just no), smile like he knows a secret, but at least he'd be discreet; he'd pretend like he's in on something, like he knew something that no one else did and he'd never forget to remind them of that.

3, Louis: god, he would be the worst of them all; he'd remind her and Harvey that he knew, that he wielded a power that was far beyond their control, that he could destroy them (but, really, what would he be destroying because neither of them have a significant other or a family and it isn't unethical, just against company policy), would pretend that it made them best friends and would use the information to blackmail them.

4, Jessica: she'd quirk an eyebrow in that way that says _we need to talk Monday morning_ but would ultimately tell Harvey that he needs to remember how difficult of a situation it is, that he need not forget how important she is to him and that if this doesn't play out the right way then he's an idiot but she wouldn't pry; she'd simply suggest that they not do it in such a public place and say that if it happens again then they're both fired.

But as Harvey thrusts, her thoughts flee from her brain and she can't think anymore - hell, she can barely even breathe. His lips slide over her jaw, leaving trails of moisture everywhere that his mouth has been, and the warmth of his breath collides with the cool moisture on her skin to make her shiver against him. Her nails dig harder into his skin as her fingers clasp tightly around the collar of his shirt, a grunt or a sigh (some kind of inaudible noise) passing between his lips and etching onto her skin.

She swallows, his breath hot on her lips, her fingers grasping onto him in a desperate attempt for clarity or reasoning or something else entirely. She isn't entirely sure, just knows that they probably shouldn't be going at the pace or speed or carelessness that they are. Her fingers grasp at his jacket, nails digging into his skin as her thumb presses into his jaw to force him to focus.

"Harvey," she mutters, "we shouldn't. We've gone too far."

"You don't want this?"

She sighs, open mouthed as her fingers work around to his hair, "no, I do. Just not here, like this - it's too late."

"Too late?" His chin bumps into her cheek, exhaling against her skin and trailing over her neck.

"We can't go back," she mutters, "we've already-"

"I know," he interjects, "it isn't like that. I don't want to take it back."

"We should have been more careful," she tries again, "safer."

"I can stop," he breathes.

Her teeth scrape over his jaw, "no, you - that isn't what I meant."

"Okay," he replies half-heartedly. His fingers dig into her skin, his mouth sliding against her flesh as moves his lips to her shoulder. Somewhere between her collarbone and her neck, his tongue flits out again skin and she can't quite wrap her head around what his exact location is. She feels his teeth against her skin as he smirks; "are you sure?"

"It's too late to ask that question," she answers breathily.

She tightens her legs around his hips, making him lunge into her and her shoulders press into the wall. His lips part, his jaw twisting to the right as the corners of his mouth turn upward. He thrusts again, his lips circling the hollows of her throat; a sigh falls out of her lips, tangles in his hair as he moves again.

His hands push up the back of her thighs, lingers on her ass as he leans back to get a different angle. Her shoulders slide further down the wall, the tops of her shoulder blades pressing harder as he thrusts again. Her fingertips slide to the top of his sternum, loop around the neck of his undershirt and tugs downward as he pushes into her steadily.

One hand pushes further up her back as the other finds its way into her hair, fingers disappearing into her red locks. A throaty moan leaves her mouth as his forehead brushes over hers, his lips hovering over hers. She can feel the ghost of his kiss on her lips, the heat in her stomach rising more and more with each forward thrust. The pads of his fingers press against her skull, push against her cranium until her head is tilted back and against the wall to give him better access.

His tongue presses against her throat, follows the length of it until his mouth reaches her collarbone; her breath hitches in her throat, her neck rolling as her hands clasp at his shirt more. Her hips buck, her torso arching into his as he thrusts faster and harder. She feels her lungs tightening, her muscles hardening and her legs feeling like jelly. She has to remind herself to breathe but she quickly forgets when his groan touches her ears.

"Harvey," she whines, "I, oh god, we have to be quiet."

He laughs throatily against her skin, drags his teeth back up her throat to cover her mouth with his. His tongue touches hers without much warning, the compilation of his movements teasing her sense, and she nearly loses her composure. Her fingertips burn hot into his skin, the feel of his hand on her spine - buried into her hair, his mouth on hers, tongue touching and sliding over hers, the thrill of his hips tapping against hers before pulling back again as he plunges into her; her mouth opens under his, a noise falling out and echoing against his lips.

"Donna," he says huskily, his words drowned out against her mouth.

Her nails dig into his skin, undoubtedly leaving marks against his flesh. Her hips roll, like he has this way of getting her to do things that she doesn't even mean to do - movements and motions on autopilot. She hasn't done anything like this in a really long time, sneaking off into hallways with inappropriate men while the party goes on without either of them. She wonders how inappropriate it isn't to be with him or if it's really just been a long time coming.

She feels the heat rising to her stomach, the way her legs feel weak and she knows that she's just so close. She sighs against the corner of his mouth, a moan tumbling out quickly after. He swallows the noise, muffles it as his teeth sink into her bottom lip. His thrusts become quicker, more pronounced, the kind that usually indicate that a guy would be close too, so she breathes a little harder and lets the low and guttural noise slip out into the minimal space between them.

Her tongue rolls against his as all of the air leaves her lungs, her muscles pulsating around his hardened cock in a way that prompts him to grunt. He comes with a sigh that etches into her skin, chills her warm flesh in a way that makes it even harder to breath as his mouth slides down her neck. She tilts her head back, his breath colliding with his skin as his fingers follow the same path his mouth made, and he pulls back to look at her. She notes that his eyes are softer, his hands linger with trepidation, his body follows her every movement like he's reluctant to disentangle himself from her; their synced breathing makes their chests collide - tap together ever so gently before parting again.

He smirks when their eyes connect, "I kissed you again."

"Now you take full responsibility," she mutters huskily. She can't hear the sigh leave his mouth but she can feel it, his hands moving to the back of her thighs to assist her in easing her feet to the floor. When she stands she's only half steady, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her dress and pushing it up with grin as he moves his hand upwards. "Is this something you normally do?"

"No, I usually just catch a ride out of here and take them back to my place," he replies; he concedes under her gaze, hands now on the waist of his suit pants, "would you believe me if I said that I just couldn't wait that long?"

"You're a liar," she bites at him with a laugh.

"Don't think that this means I'm spending Christmas with your family," he mumbles teasingly.

She looks at him pointedly, smoothing at her skirt but flattening her palms, "if you would like to revisit the subject of this meeting then you might want to reconsider that statement counselor."

"You really do get all of your law jargon from Law and Order," he counters with a smirk. He tucks his shirt back into his pants, grin both lazy teasing at the same time. Her eyes flit from his gaze to his mouth, pinpointing the difference in his appearance. She should probably correct it, make it looks like there's nothing different, but she's pretty sure that no one else could notice what she does. "Just don't think that I'm going to turn into some sensitive guy who tries to impress your parents."

"Shut up," she laughs, rolling her eyes, "they already like you and you've spent Christmas with us for the last few years."

"I've been trying to get out of it for years," he insists evenly.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should just appreciate their hospitality. What else are you going to do? Get high with Mike?" She counters with a smirk.

He glares at her, "you know about that? It was one time, how could you know about that?"

"Oh, please, you really thought I wouldn't know?"

"I had no idea that you knew so much about the things I do in my free time," he admits. He tucks his shirt back into his pants, eyes locking on hers as a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. She watches him intently, her hands aching to reach out and take over to make sure he looks just as put together as he had before. "What else do you know?"

"I don't know everything," she corrects, "I just know a lot."

"How can I compete with that?"

She smiles, "you can't."

"We still need to talk," he reminds her.

Her fingertips reach up for the knot in his tie, her brief gaze spotting in just a few moments how off kilter it is, "if this is how all of our conversations are going to go then we should probably schedule them for more appropriate occasions, you know, with less people and less...something."

"I don't usually deal with spontaneity very well," he admits. His fingers loosely wrap around her wrist, his fingertips tapping against her knuckles as she watches his lips part. His mouth closes and she watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat when he swallows. "Maybe we can go out to dinner, in a more public place?"

"Or we can order in, a more private place," she teases; her fingers fix the knot, travel down the length of his tie and coming to a stop just above his dick.

His lips twitch and he takes in a sharp breath when her fingers accidentally brush over the zipper, "stop that, woman, you just fixed me."

"Sorry," she replies with a grin, "I just, Harvey, I don't think what happened matters anymore. We're over it. We're passed that."

"Clearly," he replies cheekily. He sighs as he catches her by the wrists, thumbs sliding over her veins; she can feel her wrist pulsate beneath his fingertips, her heartbeat speed up as he steps a bit closer t her. He doesn't kiss her, not quite - not yet, but she can feel the ghost of his lips on her still. "I don't tell you how important you are to me, Donna, but that doesn't make it any less true. I know I messed up, that I made a mistake when I didn't whole heartedly fight for you, but I will always have your back. I had to make sure I could protect you and it sucks because the only way I can do that is to protect me first."

"What hurt more than anything is that you couldn't even call me yourself," she mutters, voice catching in her throat as she nearly loses her breath in her lungs.

He releases a breath, stepping a bit closer, "I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me."

"I always want to talk to you," she replies barely above a whisper, "even when you think I hate you, even when you think that I don't want to talk to you, you're the person I always want to talk to."

His mouth touches hers, but it's only brief; "you do realize how that sounds, right?"

"Shut up," she says with a laugh.

It could be easy, it could be the hardest thing they've ever done. The fact is that neither of them know, they won't figure it out until they're already into it and there isn't anyway out. But when he breathes against her skin, smiles a little longer, winks suggestively she gets it - gets what they could become and what they could have.

It doesn't make going back to the party approximately 45 seconds before him mean that they have less to explain, or that Jessica doesn't pop an eyebrow up on her forehead knowingly; it doesn't mean she's less than aware of where he is, or that she forgets what his hands feel like on her skin, or that their eyes lock and they communicate without words.


End file.
